


a detailed and poetic physical threat to executive producer dick wolf

by orphan_account



Series: The Learning Curve [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Coping, M/M, tw bro strider, tw child sexual abuse, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Usually, when you kiss Karkat, it goes pretty okay.Really.--The road to recovery is full of potholes and paved with good intentions. Starring Dave, his boyfriend, his brother, his sister, and his dead brother's ghost.
Relationships: Dave Strider & Dirk Strider, Dave Strider & Rose Lalonde, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Series: The Learning Curve [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719508
Comments: 11
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone!!! this is a sequel to Handshake, but you don't have to read that fic to understand this one. basically, i just wanted to expand more on the dave from that story... i tried to keep things as PG as possible, but there are heavy topics mentioned thru out... TW for csa, child abuse, and self harm, particularly cutting. the title is a play on that one song by pet symmetry. pls enjoy!

Usually, when you kiss Karkat, it goes pretty okay. Really. Sometimes it’s even great.

And anyway, you remember how you used to be, though nowadays the runty kid who ninja’d his way through that first portal on Earth B seems like a stranger to you, some incomprehensible basket case with opaque thoughts and arcane motivations. Past Dave didn’t know how half of how fucked up he was; at least present you has got some notion of what he’s dealing with.

Like how somewhere into your first year on the meteor, it hit you that everyone else was always reaching out and touching each other, casual as could be, like it was normal or something. The harder you looked, the more you noticed. Your friends constantly seemed to be doling out arm-pats and back-slaps and reassuring shoulder-rubs, trading touches so fluently it was like they’d received formal education in a language you didn’t speak. It never really occurred to you, back then, that people just touched each other all the time, no big thing. 

You didn’t know it was abnormal to dodge your friends’ hands like you were auditioning for a Karate Kid reboot, or that two people occupying the same physical space was just an unavoidable part of existing near each other, proximity-wise, and definitely nothing to lose your shit over. You thought they were the crazy ones. But somewhere along the line, that changed. 

So don’t get it twisted, the other stuff that’s been picking up speed since the two of you started dating is consistently phenomenal. For instance when he lets you watch TV right on top of him and you get to make like a prize bichon frise, sitting pretty on some rich granny’s dour, floral skirts. You let him scritch through your hair with his nails, and basically just manhandle the shit out of you, all the time.

Karkat makes you feel so fucking tiny, sometimes, but not in a way that’s like, weird, or emasculating, which is a valid concern of yours as a man of diminutive stature, or if you really wanna get politically correct about it a Fun Sized American. With Karkat, you don’t feel powerless, like some peewee squirt who never grew right. He makes you feel like you don’t have to worry about anything, because someone bigger than you has it all under control, and he’s gonna make everything right. 

Even when kissing Karkat isn’t great, it’s never actually the poor dude’s fault. At least you can count on him not to notice, most of the time, if something’s off. He might even be more shy about taking his shirt off than you are, and he definitely surpasses you in his level of sheer material awkwardness, so the two of you are taking it slow, real slow. Molasses in July. Seniors at the charity run for breast cancer. Mountains pushing out from tectonic plates. You’re holding hands during TV time and not making eye contact during dinner. You’re rationing out makeout sessions like they stopped manufacturing them in the 90s.

And you still can’t even fucking do it sometimes.

Sometimes, when you kiss Karkat, you can feel something shift inside you. A veil falls, or else some rusty, forgotten gear stops turning, hidden in the lava-recesses of your primordial psyche. Everything grinds to a stop. Your body temperature drops. Maybe a muscle locks up, or the hands on your internal clock inexorably start to wind down. And usually, _usually_ , even when your head’s been picked clean of thoughts like a WalMart on Black Friday, when it’s empty shelves and fluorescent lights, even when it feels like you’re doing it from underwater, you can still keep your mouth on Karkat’s mouth until enough time has passed and you formulate an excuse and abscond with your dignity. Once, you pushed him away, and you’ll never forget the hurt look on his face. You knew what was happening behind it, too, how you had just reaffirmed that he was ugly and deformed and probably had bad breath. 

And what could you say to prove him wrong? No matter how much you tell him using words that he’s objectively a hottie, less of a snack and more of a cornucopia, at the very least a seven or eight, there’s no way he’ll hear it as anything other than bullshit overcompensation unless you put your money where your mouth is. 

But how could you explain a thing like that? 

You’d start by saying, maybe, that sometimes, only sometimes, when his lips touch yours, some kind of cursed alchemical reaction begins, and there’s nothing you can do. It's old poison, re-releasing itself into your bloodstream. You’d let him know it wasn’t even under _your_ control, so he can’t possibly blame himself. That sometimes, like a fairy tale played on rewind, when Prince Charming kisses you, it sends you into some kind of uncanny sleep. 

Like that isn’t a totally cracked-out thing to say. Like he isn’t gonna ask what laid your curse in the first place. As if you have any fucking idea yourself. 

If Karkat asked you why, you’d just shrug. You’d say, I dunno. Pretty crazy, huh? You’d start talking about a movie you watched recently. Your gears would lock up, every one. 

Even if, really, you do know. Or you at least, you know that Jade knows. 

After all, you had that talk with her, on the roof. The one that, in a roundabout way, led to you and Karkat getting together at all. Thinking back on that night, exactly what you said always slips from your memory, dancing just out of reach, coy as you please. But you definitely remember how chill she was about everything, a level of cool that bordered on miraculous. How when she hugged you, someone at Guiness must have sat bolt upright and logged a new record for the most epic bro-hug in the entire continuum of paradox space. Her arms were surprisingly strong; her hair smelled doggish and familiar. 

After you said your piece, you remember feeling lighter for a couple days. Then, more of the same. Back to that familiar old stiffness, deep where you tick, so matter-of-fact that you can almost forget it’s there at all.

If you need to, you can also replay some of Rose’s most choice tidbits of cutting psychoanalysis. The ones that made you wanna grudgingly tip your hat, tell the bitch that maybe she has a point. Usually when she starts talking out her ass about Freud, all it does is make you scoff at how self-important she can be. And sure, Rose is always pretending she understands when she really doesn’t have a clue, but sometimes she hits the nail on the fucking head, and when she’s right, she’s right. 

Not that you’d ever feed the awful hag’s ego by letting her know. But, because Rose is such a fucking brainiac, she probably has some idea about how things are. Maybe even a better idea than you do. 

But Dirk doesn’t know. Karkat doesn’t know. And obviously, nobody else has a reason to give a shit. You wish it wasn’t such a big fucking deal, that you could make with those two like you could with the rest of the Earth’s population and never bring the first thirteen years of your life up again. Even John, even Roxy. Even Terezi, wherever she was, could go on living forever, none the wiser, and probably live happier lives if you kept your mouth shut.

Well, so could Karkat. So could Dirk. Nobody really _needs_ to know.

It was something so small. An infinitesimal fraction of the big picture, just another idiosyncrasy, blending itself in so neatly your eye could skip right over and you wouldn’t lose anything important. One tiny sequence of events, rendered unobtrusive among a whole metric shit-ton of other things that happened. After all that time-travel, and aliens, and coming back from the dead. Ultimately, what reason is there to bring up any of the pointless fucking actions perpetrated years ago by a dead man, in an apartment that’s been destroyed, in a universe that you’ll never see again? None of it is anything that either of them would benefit from hearing.

Especially not Dirk. That guy’s already a nutcase with more baggage than a starlet at the airport terminal. The last thing he needs is you heaping more shit on his back to lose sleep over. That dude has the losing sleep thing covered on his own. 

Those are the tedious, boring thoughts running on loop through your brain today as you fly your way over to Dirk’s apartment. Up where the air’s thin, there’s room for your thoughts to stretch out in all directions, or else fixate into one long thread and get tangled on themselves. A cormorant yawps at you from probably half a mile away, just another dot in the blue, snapping you out of your funk. 

Yeah, fuck off, beak-ass douchebag. You’ll be off the air in a second. Birds of prey often don’t take kindly to some righteous, wingless dude suddenly kicking the shits in their patch of ozone. You hold its mean little gaze for a moment, then decide on an altitude drop before shit gets any realer.

Once or twice a week, you visit Dirk’s apartment. Not on any sort of schedule, or else he gets cagey, like you’re putting him on suicide watch. Really it’s not like that, but you get where he’s coming from, so now you waste your Time figuring out how to stagger the schedule, keep it just irregular enough that he still lets you come. When you cruise through his window, it’s late morning, warm weather and sun. You don’t need any special Time knowledge to deduce that 10AM on a Tuesday is pretty much the most mundane slot in any week, but you’re feeling pretty smart, anyway. A flush of pride that you’re getting one over on the dude, when really you should both get over yourselves, 'cause all you wanna do is hang.

Dirk is face-down and drooling on his work desk when you arrive, but the moment your feet touch the floor with a small ‘tap’, his spine straightens into a perfect line and he looks right at you so you can almost hear the Windows boot-up noise.

“‘Sup.” Says Dirk. “Didn’t know you were coming over today, man. Might have cleaned the place up a bit.” 

“Dude, you know the only reason I even bother visiting is for the bachelor funk. Karkat’s got our whole apartment trussed up in doilies and tea-cozies. It’s like a lemon Pledge apocalypse in there. My immune system needs germs if it’s gonna stay strong.” You float yourself onto the heap of laundry that's chilling on his couch.

From the left arm of Dirk’s sofa, you can see every corner of his room. Really, it’s not even dirty, just untidy, the kind of disarray that speaks to the mind of a tortured genius. If he’s been in too much of a hurry to replace things as he works, you can even track his movements around his studio, archaeologically pinpoint where inspiration first struck in the layers of bolts and screws. Take a look at his table, and you can immediately understand what he was doing all night until he passed out right where he was sitting. 

Looks like something with Furbies. There’s a bunch of stripped animatronic carcasses and their little beaked faceplates lying everywhere. Standing among the rubble, like the final gladiator after a fuzzy battle royale, is a partially skinned franken-Furby with way too many limbs.

This is one of the things you enjoy most about Dirk: how he’s a fucking genius. You always knew your Bro was smart, but you kinda thought it was just street-smarts. You doubt the dude was educated very much, though honestly who knows, but he would definitely not cite abstract mathematics as a hobby of his. If you tried talking to him about philosophy, he’d probably call you a homophobic slur. 

Which, that’s another thing. It really blows your mind sometimes that Dirk is gay. 

Not that there’s a fucking problem with that. You worry sometimes that you come off as unsupportive about his sexuality. Even though you’re in a relationship with a man, now, you still feel that way. It’s just a real fuckin’ plot twist, is all, spending your whole life with this dude and accepting his heterosexuality like it was the lost eleventh commandment, word of God... Then come to find out that, when left to his own devices, he’s about as gay as a fruit tree full of fairies. 

Or, not even. He’s chiller than, if you’re being real, you had any idea a gay guy could be. Dirk is extremely manly, capable and badass. You heard all about what he did in his session, the kind of stunts he pulled. Real stunts, too, not fucked-up pranks or questionably legal business ventures like what’s on your list of Bro’s great achievements. So yeah, you’d say the two of them are pretty different.

Pretty fucking different, but also exactly the same, in the weirdest ways. They’re similar in height, but Bro was wider, simultaneously flabbier and way more built. He took up twice the space that Dirk does, in a room. They both have weird tattoos, but in different places. Bro had ‘GAME OVER’ done on his knuckles, and once, you glimpsed some kind of elaborate cross on his back, the word ‘Dios’ scrawled above in faded, bluish ink. And of course the elaborately rendered erection on his bicep, which throbbed when Bro flexed his muscles. Bro’s skin was a shade darker than Dirk’s, baked brown and sun-damaged from desert living. Around his eyes, like the cracks that open in hot dry clay, were small, dusty wrinkles. You’d always find yourself staring at them when you tried to get a peek behind his shades.

The biggest difference of all, maybe: growing up, you were half-convinced your Bro didn’t even _have_ eyes, whereas Dirk’s eyes are orange.

In your dreams, Bro would take off his shades, and underneath, there was just skin, or else more little cracks. The only eyes he needed were the winking red lenses of his cameras. Their feed went straight to his brain.

From the couch, you can see all the weird shit Dirk keeps around, can see into his kitchen. You can see his shades folded by his computer, and until he picks them up and replaces them on his face, there are his irises: tangerine. 

He always picks them up and puts them back on, but at least he doesn’t sleep wearing the stupid things. Right in front of you, he’ll remove his eyewear to wipe the lenses or fuck with the settings. It’s little things like that, y’know?

As for you, you’ve been experimenting with living shades-off, part-time, not even just in the apartment with Karkat. Sometimes you walk around out of doors, wearing your own bare face like a disguise, checking out how different the sky looks when it isn’t filtered through sepia lenses. But even if it isn’t movie memorabilia from a universe that doesn’t exist anymore, Dirk’s eyewear is definitely more of a statement piece than yours, necessary for fashion, and anyway you’re cool with Dirk being the real eccentric, between the two of you.

Usually you make Dirk some kind of meal and stick around for a few hours after he eats it. Just like Bro used to be, Dirk is totally incapable of taking care of himself, though you never thought about it that way, before.

He’s extremely picky about what he eats. Mostly what he buys is canned vegetables and soft drinks, like what he ate before he entered the game, back in Houston, Atlantis. Trying to get him to diversify his diet is like doing dental work on an angry gorilla, but you’ve made some headway. Dirk likes Oreos and dry breakfast cereal. He likes sushi and french fries. Any kind of seasoning is off the table. He’ll only eat vegetables if they’re thoroughly cooked, and fruit has to be juiced. If he thinks any of that is gonna stop you from making him some fucking food, he’s got another thing coming.

Since you touched down on Earth C, you’ve discovered that you like cooking. Obviously you’re no Jane, can’t pull a five course meal out of thin air, and if someone held a gun to your head and told you to bake a tray of chocolate chip cookies from scratch, you’d probably end up bleeding out on the kitchen floor. 

But you’re experimenting with buying groceries, learning which vegetables taste good and how often to buy milk, and the mysterious science that can turn the grains of rice in a bag into a fluffy, steaming bowl of dinner. You’re eating more vegetables than you ever thought you would in your life, and also, as it turns out, a lot more insects. Some of the Alternian food Karkat brings around is fucking good.

John roasts you to no end whenever he sees your pantry full of tempeh and quinoa and watercress. Sometimes you have to focus really hard not to say something douchey— like how, obviously, he’s having his junk food moment, lately, and you’re totally with it, but also, he got so nourished growing up that it wasn’t even a thing. John actually went around complaining about his dad’s cooking, as if having too many wholesome meals and birthday cakes was in any universe a reasonable thing to whine about, and could he please just let you eat your fucking spinach Buddha bowl in peace.

So John doesn’t get it. You can’t expect him to. He’s not insensitive so much as he is acting exactly how you always wanted him to act, playing the part that you supplied. And his dad’s dead, anyway, so you really gotta let that one go. Focus on what you do have. 

Like how, at least, once a week, or maybe even twice a week, you can make Dirk dinner, something nutritious with tons of shit you bought at the grocery store. Growing up, grocery stores were an alien landscape, creepy bunkers filled with staggering quantities of shit you were too cool to eat. Your meals came from the gas station, because fuck rabbit food, that shit tastes like dank ass, and everything’s better served hot and ready with E-Z Cheez, anyway.

That night, you decide on sandwiches and tomato soup. Dirk, the poor shit-head, really can’t digest dairy to save his life, but at the troll grocery store you can get vegan grub-slices, which as it turns out taste just like Kraft and don’t involve an udder or a baby troll. You heat up the soup in a saucepan, take your time toasting the sandwiches until they’re golden brown, flip them out of the pan in an arc so Dirk will whistle and call you Bobby Flay. Then the two of you spend some quiet time in the kitchen with a podcast on, you taking care of the dishes, him at the table, coaxing his augmented mutant Furby to life. Then you fly home. 

Sometimes you and Karkat sleep in the same bed. Most of the time you do. That night, you fall asleep wedged right in the nasty brute’s armpit, content as a little fucking kitten. You’re sleeping better than you’ve ever slept in your life, lately, because when you wake up, his arm’s still gonna be there. Sopor patches all up and down his chest, dude sleeps like a rock. Waking up in the middle of the night doesn't eat into your net total hours of sleep like it used to; you can just nod right back off. 

And when it isn’t like that, when you spend the night in what used to be your room and is now your ‘studio’, you wish that Karkat knew it wasn’t _him_. 

Sometimes it’s necessary to snap at Karkat, just to get him out of your hair. Makes you guilty as shit, sick to your damn stomach, ‘cause you see how he’s so sensitive, gets hurt by the littlest things, and sometimes you can't stop yourself from turning the screw.

The nights you spend alone, you camp out in front of your laptop and fry your retinas on garbage until it’s light outside, until your brain finally taps out and you can wrestle it into a state resembling sleep. Around noon, Karkat will shake you awake from where you ended up snoring on the couch and carry you back to bed.

This isn’t something between you and Karkat. It’s old blood. It’s for nobody except you, and your Bro. Those nights you spend out in the proverbial dog-house, Bro feels so real it’s like he could reach out and grab you. Like he never left at all. Sometimes the gear catches and you know you won’t be able sleep, not at all. No reason why, just a flat impossibility, and you know you’re gonna spend the night tossing and kicking, shutting your eyes only to dream about falling and jerk awake shouting not ten seconds later. Nights like those, Bro looms at the foot of your bed like a poltergeist, won't let up for anything.

So really, by removing him from that shitty assault projectile's blast radius, you’re protecting Karkat. Every time you pick at him until he explodes and you feel justified not coming to bed, it's for his own good. You know he doesn’t see it that way, but there’s a lot that Karkat doesn’t understand. 

* * *

It had been a good night. No, scratch that, a _really_ good night. It might have been one of the best you can remember. Karkat took you out to dinner, and all those rom coms must have taught the guy a thing or two, because his game was impeccable. Your boy was on his shit. At times, his behavior bordered on _smooth_.

And despite yourself, you were feeling thoroughly wooed. The ice cubes in your drink, the dipping sauce next to the fried breaded stick-bug legs, Karkat’s dark eyes, everything was glittering like Christmas. Once you let yourself give into the act, accept that, yeah, you were on a _date_ , you started to feel what you realized, with rising shock, were true stirrings of romance. Flower petals, doki-dokis, bitter Victorian pangs of longing that pealed through your wretched chest, and don’t forget the butterflies in your stomach. All of it. Cut to the credits, let’s end on an upbeat rock song. 

When you got back to the apartment, you loosened your tie, watched how Karkat’s eyes got caught on your hands. Hell, but you couldn’t _not_ kiss him, there in the kitchen that the two of you shared, which before the two of you moved in was just white walls and an empty fridge. 

There, right underneath the calendar the two of you picked together, a new LOLcat every month with all the boxes crammed full of hand-written testaments to the dinky little life that the two of you, against all odds, had built up from nothing, you kissed Karkat until the both of you were stupid. ‘Til your blood was sparkling like the tiny, tacky fairy lights strung up everywhere at the restaurant where he took you. ‘Til you felt shaky and hot like the flame on the candle that was dripping wax on the tablecloth the whole time. 

Kissing Karkat, it was usually pretty nice. He was very sweet, always tooth-ache gentle, and you were always in careful awe of the close proximity of his face to yours. But rarely had you felt the kind of tawdry, drug-to-the-vein, off-the-chain homolust that possessed you that night. You were seeing fireworks. Your whole body felt in turns hot and cold. Karkat had slipped his jacket off, then he grabbed you by the lapels and slipped your jacket off, too, and you just about died.

From there it was clumsy pawing all the way to the living room, and now you’re on the couch, him in his jersey shirt and you in your rumpled button-down. Just kind of breathing on each other, hands settled on shoulders and the backs of necks. You feel weirdly shy. Karkat’s looking at you really intense, and you bet he can feel how your heart’s going like the Energizer Bunny. 

“Dave.” His voice sounds serious, so much that you have to pull back and look at him. “...Do you think I could take my shirt off?”

“Oh,” You hear yourself say, “Oh, yeah. Sure, man, definitely.” 

Then the two of you are quiet, and somehow not touching anymore. The silence stretches. 

“So I should, just.” Without realizing it, you had turned your head to hide your face from him, and now you let it turn back. He looks constipated. Shit, the mood is definitely gone. You were having such an amazing night, too. Now the restaurant with the candle seems like it might have never happened, for how extremely unsexy you’re feeling. Congratulations, Dave, you pulled your pants down and took a big hot crap on what was definitely the most romantic evening of your life. You’re such a tremendous jerk.

“Should I, just…?” Karkat starts again.

“I mean, yeah.” You say. “I mean. I can, too.”

“Can you.”

“Yes!” Immediately, your fingers go down to your buttons. 

You hear Karkat not moving for a long moment spent craning your neck to get them loose, but then you hear a soft rustle of fabric from beside you, Karkat's shirt sliding over his head and landing on the floor. Hear yourself sigh in relief, weirdly shaky. 

The mood is dead. You’re shoveling cold dirt on its grave. All those flower petals from before are gumming up a cold, rainy gutter. You’re not sure what happened, but all of the sudden, shit’s feeling somber as fuck. But stubbornly, you still want your shirt off. Because, yeah. You really, really like Karkat. You think he’s got a hot body. Isn’t this what dating someone is all about? 

And, yeah, at this point you can just pony up to it, admit that you care about him, pretty much more than anyone. You’re sick of hiding. A whole life spent keeping shit under wraps, and after all this time, you'd like to think that maybe, if it's just Karkat, it'll be fine. Your head feeling light and crazy off the heated makeout session from ten minutes ago, all you really want is for Karkat to _see_ you.

The air against your shoulders is cold, makes you shiver. The slide of cotton down your bare arms, a little ticklish. You take a moment to study the way your white dress shirt looks crumpled around your wrists before you drag your face up.

You’re glad you can see Karkat when he looks at you, because you can feel yourself making the same expressions and it feels a little less shitty when he mirrors them back. Threads of disbelief, horror, and sadness in the flick of his eyes, which are so serious, really, so soulful and manly you could almost cry. 

Karkat has bright red stripes on his sides, looking like gashes that go straight into his muscle. Grub scars, your brain supplies. Where his vestigial legs used to be, before they cut loose like cargo off a jet. So fucking bizzarre, but also strangely pretty, like ethereal body jewelry.

But, fuck, once your eyes stop getting so caught by the look of his blood shining out of his sides, you can see that Karkat has been cut the fuck _up_. He looks like how you used to look, but don’t anymore since you turned God tier and received your current body, factory new with no defects. Karkat’s got scars like you remember examining in the mirror, when you were young, those chewed-up old memories bouncing and refracting like an acid flashback, mixing with the sight of your hot boyfriend and his fabulous muscles, making you queasy.

You see a big angry mouth of shiny chitin, slightly darker than the surrounding skin, grinning over Karkat’s shoulder and bicep. A stab wound right in his side, and on his thigh where it looks like a beast attacked him. You can read exactly how much it hurt in the scoring of the claw marks, see how he tried to get away in the scrape on his opposite knee. With your vague, residual Time powers, you can feel approximately when Karkat received each, but you can’t imagine the stories behind them. You knew he had a hard-scrabble life back on Alternia, but seeing it laid out like this makes you feel like you got sucker-punched. 

Worse, it grips you with a foreign nostalgia for your old body, the one that died, the story that got lost when its skin, along with everything else, got burnt to a crisp.

And he's so goddamn beautiful. You didn’t expect him to _not_ be super hot under his baggy clothes, but you also didn’t expect the sight of his torso to make you stare like a dope. That’s what distracts you long enough to forget what Karkat’s seeing when he looks at you.

“Dave.” Says Karkat, very carefully, and just like feeling out the end of a doomed timeline with some sixth sense, all of a sudden you know exactly what he’s going to say next. You can follow the path of his eyes well enough, at least. You freeze.

You know what he's about to ask, and you also know exactly how many answers you’re gonna have for him, which is zilch.You were stupid, stupid, to take your shirt off. What the hell were you thinking? While you wait for Karkat to speak, your blood is busy turning into ice. 

You wish he’d stop staring.You’re always careful; there’s just one place, really, where there are marks, huddled together like they’re trying to save on rent. The dart of his eye back and forth, like a bar-code scanner. Is he counting? 

You’re going to leave. You’re going to walk out the door and probably buy a bus ticket. You’re gonna blast a hole in Time and eke out a living with the wooly mammoths. 

Maybe if you sit tight in the mesozoic era, after you’ve lived through the rise of civilization up until the present moment, then you’ll be ready to explain this one away. Maybe by then, you’ll have had a chance to come up with a good lie. Hey babe, good to see you, by the way did I ever tell you about the time I was abducted by MK-Ultra sleeper agents? They were looking for human arm tissue samples, from a very localized section of skin on the right arm of a human male. 

Duh. Obviously. What other reason could you have for the neat rows of scar tissue, running up and down your arm like some kind of teenybopper metalhead poser. 

“Dave… Did you do that to _yourself_?” Karkat looks so horrified that abruptly you think, fuck it, I’m out. You ready yourself for flight. 

But he must see how you move to rise, and he drops a hand on your shoulder. The warm weight of it shocks you enough that you actually stay put.

Suddenly, you’re really fucking tired. Some voice you only keep around to tear you down is getting real full of himself about now. What did you think was going to happen, he asks you, all smug. Did you think you were gonna be able to live the rest of your life and never take your shirt off again? That you’d never have to face up to your actions? Did you think you could get away with this? Well, now Karkat knows everything. So the least you could do for him is be a fucking man and stick around to deal with the fallout.

You keep your eyes on the wall behind his head. Somehow, you dip your chin up and down for yes.

You don’t see how Karkat’s face changes when he realizes what a pathetic loser you actually are, but you feel him pull you into his chest, and you sink.

Then the two of you go to bed, still without your shirts, and in the dark you lay awake with him next to you for hours. His skin feels alien, hot to the touch but smooth and dry, so strange on your palms. Karkat stiffens in surprise when his hands find your armpit hair, and you snort into his shoulder because, duh, you’re a fucking mammal. But then the tables turn when you get your fingers on those weird cherry-colored tiger stripes. Then you’re both aliens, whoop dee fucking doo, and everything feels a lot less weird.

But as nice as petting each other in the dark all innocent like a couple of freaks is, how fucked-up, terribly _nice_ it feels to do that, just that, how okay you’d be if this was a home run for you guys, period, and fuck the NBA… Well.

Karkat respects you too much to pry, but even _he_ ’s probably getting impatient with how slowly you’re traversing the space between first and second bases, as they empirically stand. He’s the umpire at a late July little league game, watching you strike out over and over, sweaty and beleaguered, wishing he never agreed to this shit in the first place.

It’s just starting to feel a little weird. Karkat’s so fucking good to you. All your illogical aversions and ridiculous emotional hangups, all your petty evasiveness and even the times you’re genuinely fucking mean. Every little thing you ask of him, Karkat gives it to you, never asks why 'cause he knows it'll make you bolt. You've catch-22ed him into actions he doesn't even understand, with an ultimatum always hanging over his head. You never let him forget that if he pushes too far, you'll be gone.

You wish he could lay you out on an operating table, shackle you at the wrist and ankle, take out his sickle and slice whatever’s wrong with you away. You sometimes wish Karkat would shake you by the shoulders and scream in your face until you give it all up. 

Aren't you betraying Karkat by accepting all his damn kindness, reading all his cards while keeping your own so close to your chest? Is it really a lie if it’s just a lie of omission? You sure hope not, ‘cause if that’s the case, you can’t recall telling the truth once.

So you kiss, but only sometimes. After lights-out, the two of you keep petting each other like specimens in the touch tank at the aquarium, if the mood strikes. And Karkat is always so god damn understanding. And the spectre by the foot of your bed crosses his arms, commences his lurk. And no matter what you do, you end up feeling like the world’s scummiest jerk.

* * *

In the end, Karkat is the one who brings it up, and it’s not how you thought it would go down at all. Not in all your wackiest fantasies, not in your worst fucking nightmares. The real catalyst, all along, is Law and Order: SVU.

You’d been aware that Karkat, like some kind of righteous martyr for pop-cultures lost, had made it his mission to rewatch all the classic Earth B television series. One Tree Hill, The Office, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, House M.D., and F.R.I.E.N.D.S., had all at one point taken up residence on your cluttered shelf of DVDs.

Sometimes you’d watch along, mostly because it’s fun to see someone absolutely flip their lid over plot twists and comedy gags that are, at this point, so ingrained in your subconscious that watching them play out on screen doesn’t even make your funny bone twitch. You get to point out all the fucked-up easter eggs, too, list production notes, dredge up every piece of Hollywood dirt you can think of on every single actor that comes on screen, all while Karkat screeches at you to at least wait until he’s done watching, for fuck’s sake, he wants to preserve his integrity as a bipartisan viewer. 

But you hadn’t known he had been watching SVU. 

If you had, you would have watched it with him. Made fun of all the plot holes, expand on the thinly veiled news stories that served as frameworks for most of the episodes, groan when he insisted on watching every season, even though it was a damn train wreck that just kept on fucking getting renewed. You would have told him to call it quits after season 14, come on.

But as it is, when you get home and find him sitting at the kitchen table, looking kind of solemn and pinched, you really have no clue what’s going through his head. 

“Uh, hey Karkat. I’m back.” You set your bags down on the kitchen counter, just some shit you picked up at the hardware store. 

“Great!” Karkat says quickly. “How was the, ah. Shit, where were you again?”

You squint at him. Something is definitely up, and frankly the way he’s looking at you is raising your hackles all the way to eleven. 

“Shopping.” You reply. “Good news, we can finally fix the kitchen sink.”

And when Karkat _still_ doesn't stop staring at you wide-eyed and guilty, you raise your voice a little. “Listen, man, do we have a problem?”

Again he replies like his ass is on fire. “No! Definitely not. No problems here.” 

Then, silence.

At this point, you’re annoyed, not to mention you get a creeping feeling that you might have done something wrong.

“So will you tell me what’s up, then?” You say, grabbing your arms and rocking a little. “‘Cause I’m getting a hella weird vibe here, in this kitchen, on this day. And if anything happened, or like if I did something and you’re pissed at me--”

Immediately, Karkat cuts you off. “No! For fuck’s sake, I’m definitely not mad at you.”

You give him a look, and he sighs. ”Dave, I’m not angry. I’m just kinda... confused, I guess.” 

You keep staring at him until he keeps going, looking like he’s getting ready to tell you that you've had spinach between your teeth for the past ten years. “There’s just something, I guess, I was wondering, about human culture.”

“Oh,” you say, “well, you know I’m your guy for that.” 

Already feeling relieved, like an idiot, you tell him, “Man, that’s no big deal. Anything you need to know, I gotchu. I’m basically your human studies professor.”

Karkat waits a second before he continues, and when he does, that fragile sense of relief, the faint hope that maybe there really was nothing wrong and tonight could be normal, all falls away like water droplets off a slippery goddamn duck.

“So... during the game. You know how, before any of us had even fucking met a human, or even knew anything about the planet Earth other than it was where some asshole alien players were living, and that those douchebags were our only chance at survival...”

Karkat clears his throat.

“Well, we had viewports that we could use to look through your timeline and pick which points to troll you.”

You’d nod, or shrug, do _something_ in response, but your joints are suddenly out of working order, rusted straight through. You already hate this conversation, and no matter where Karkat's leading with this train of logic, you get a sinking feeling it ain't somewhere you want to go. 

“We did our best to be respectful!" He continues. "Scout’s fucking honor. Most of us did our best not to catch you guys naked or anything. I think Terezi might have watched some of the humans in the shower, but really it was for shock value. You know, laugh at the weird looking mammal, scroll to a point in time when the weird looking mammal is available to chat. We didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, we were just kids.”

“I don’t even remember thinking anything at the time, besides how fucking pan-rotted these aliens all were, how our work was cut out for us if we were gonna get them in shape to do anything except doom us worse. I didn’t know jack shit about human culture back then. I was such a fucking cretin, I remember I just couldn’t get over how none of you had horns.”

“And -- I know shit wasn’t normal with your brother. And I _really_ don’t wanna fucking pry, because... Even if I don’t understand what happened, really, or how human families are even supposed to work in the first place, I… I get it? I think? At least, I get that it’s something that bothers you.”

Your mouth is already forming around a ‘yeah, right’, but the rest of Karkat's words come out in a rush. “I’ve been watching a lot of human Law and Order: SVU.” 

Everything flash-freezes. The thoughts clear out of your head before you can so much as blow a whistle and get them in line. And Karkat just keeps fucking running his mouth, because of course he does, even though you can hardly hear on account of the blood rush going in your ears like Niagara falls, can hardly tell what his face is doing on account of how your vision is going double.

“I didn’t really know how to bring this up with you. But I’ve been reading stuff, about, like... rape, and sexual assault? Human stuff. Alternia never really had concepts laid out, for when shit like that happened. I just wish I could understand better. If you could just talk to me. Then, maybe...”

He probably says more but you don’t catch it. By the time the word “sexual assault” has passed his lips, before you even notice yourself lifting off the ground, you’re out the window, careening into the wide blue sky. 

* * *

You lose your lunch somewhere over a shopping mall. The lone thought in your head is _well, isn’t this just fucking perfect._

Every time you think about how Karkat doesn’t just _know_ , that he _saw_ , your body twitches again and you spit up another mouthful of bile down onto the head of a pedestrian. No interference from birds today, not even the most impetuous canada goose will get near you. They can smell the unhinged from a mile off. They know better than to fucking mess. You can hardly fucking stand being this pathetic, crazy, apparently Tourettic man, floating through the sky, spitting up gastric juice and gyrating like he’s one of those blow-up dancers from a car dealership. If you were a bird and you saw yourself from across the sky, you’d fly a little faster and try not to make eye contact. If you were a vulture, you’d take one look and know that by the end of the night, there’d be dinner waiting, right underneath where this twitching weirdo finally spazzed too hard and fell right out of the sky. 

So you drift for a while. Your thoughts stay on the same track, repeating - he saw, he _saw_ , he saw, he saw, over and over, occasionally cut with a psycho desire to go back in time, find Dick Wolf, and break his neck with your bare hands before he even applies for film school.

You have no idea how much time passes between when you busted out of the window and when Rose texts. That’s how out of it you are; even when you’re asleep you still have your internal clock. The buzzing in your back pocket jolts you back to reality. When you feel it go off, you can clear your head enough to find the nearest cell tower, sit yourself on a high altitude rafter and respond. To all the kids back at home, save a life. Don’t text and fly.

TT: Hello, Dave. Seeing as we are friends, I thought it might be prudent to check in on you and see how you’re doing.  
TT: And before you feel the need to derail this attempt at deepening our relationship and dismantle the flimsy pretexts under which it is being established, I will do so in your stead, free of charge.  
TT: Karkat asked me to text you.  
TT: But nothing you say to me ever has to reach his ears.  
TG: what did karkat tell you  
TT: Nothing, except that he was concerned for your well-being, and that he thought you might be in need of a friend.  


Welp. 

TG: if i told you to go fuck yourself would you leave me alone  
TT: No.  
TT: I would enlist the help of someone else in contacting you, perhaps John, or Jade.  


God damn it. Now that your brain fog is starting to clear, you’re wishing it would stay put. You’re remembering the creeping fear that started when Karkat brought up the viewports. That tickle at the back of your neck, like prey when it senses something moving in the shadows. 

Then he said SVU, and you may as well have been hit by a freight train. You just dipped. Do not collect $200, do not pass Go. The idea that Karkat watched that sniveling shitshow, saw those made-up little brats crying it out for all of America to see, and thought it could have anything to do with _you_ , makes you so angry your vision goes white around the edges. What happened between you and Bro, it wasn't anything like that. It was the only time he ever fucking touched you when he wasn't beating your ass. It wasn't a big deal. He wasn't a _criminal_.

Oh, god, why didn’t you think about the _viewports_ in the fucking _troll chat client_?

You know they were bored and in dire need of a distraction. Bunch of tweens, just witnessed multiple murders, they’d watch the pilot episode of Golden Girls over and over ‘til the tape got frayed if it was all they had.

And you know, back then, that none of the trolls considered you any type of friend. ‘Friend’ wasn’t a word the trolls had even heard before, one of those gaping lacunae between English and Alternian. Words that just don’t translate. Like ‘love’, and ‘family’. Like ‘sexual assault’, apparently. 

So it’s conceivable that Karkat could have sat there. Not knowing what he was watching, of course. In grieving, to be sure. But still.

He could have sat there, watching the most humiliating moments of your life play out, watching you get beaten down and degraded and broken, and Karkat might have even _laughed_. While on-screen, you were getting your shit wrecked by the man you loved, unquestioningly, more than anyone in the fucking world, Terezi might have been smiling her butchershop smile, doing the awful, annoying cackle that you can still hear clear as a dial tone on account of how badly you miss it. 

Terezi's mocking laughter rings in your ears as you watch the thick ropes of wire quiver in the wind and consider some of the shit they might have seen you do. Vivid snapshots of your young self in every awful situation you can recall, lying at the bottom of the stairs in a busted heap, on your fucking knees, race into view and crowd out your thoughts. You’d be sick again, except Rose is texting, and when you're looking at the tiny purple letters you can focus your attention back into a tight little beam. 

TT: Dave? I am worried about you, and I would very much appreciate it if you’d respond.  
TG: jesus  
TG: calm your tits  
TT: Karkat seemed very concerned in the messages he sent.  
TT: I have a right to be worried.  
TT: Where are you?  
TG: oh you know  
TG: around  
TG: where the hell even am i ever  
TG: im free as a bird lalonde and this bird youll can not change  
TT: Hearing that does nothing to set my heart at ease.  
TG: aw boo fuckin hoo  
TG: go clutch a handkerchief and stare out the window  
TG: maybe if were lucky itll thunderstorm and then you can really start feeling bereft  
TT: Dave.  
TT: What the hell happened?  
TT: You can't just run off like this.  
TT: You have people who care about you.  
TT: Karkat is worried sick, and I am too.  
TT: The fact of the matter is, at this hour you’re usually safe at home, and while I don’t know exactly what was said, I have gathered that you stormed out on bad terms.  
TT: Can we please talk about whatever it is that happened like adults?  
TT: Please?  
TG: oh god  
TG: i really dont wanna rehash this right now  
TG: nothing that isnt old news anyway  
TG: i wouldnt wanna add any fuel to the flames of your lifelong passion for dismantling my goddamn psyche  
TG: that shits a raging inferno  
TG: anyone ever tell you dont play with fire  
TT: Dave.  
TG: fine  
TG: ill tell you what happened  
TG: since you people are so obsessed with knowing every single little fucking thing about me  
TG: it was karkat  
TG: what i mean is  
TG: karkat saw  
TT: What did he see?  
TG: jesus fucking joseph mary and every single saint  
TG: ok  
TG: so you know how before the trolls merged our sessions  
TG: they had a viewport of our timelines  
TT: Yes, I am aware.  
TG: so  
TT: So?  
TG: so fucking ten years later he watches law and order svu  
TT: I fail to see the connection here.  
TG: hahahaha  
TG: hahahahahaha  
TG: fucking ha  
TG: real convenient time for you to turn into a blithering fucking idiot  
TG: did your big fat brain fall out of your ear or are you just a sadist who loves to see me squirm  
TG: you just wanna see me spell it out so you can make another addition to the file you keep on me  
TG: shits damn near the size of a phone book at this point lalonde  
TG: but if you really think it makes a difference then fine  
TG: he saw me getting fucking molested rose  
TG: obviously i cant look him in the eye right now  
TT: What?  
TT: By whom?  
TT: When did this happen?  
TG: what the fuck are you talking about  
TG: you know  
TG: rose you knew this already  
TG: didnt you  
TT: What did I know, Dave?  
TT: What the hell did I know.  
TT: This is the first I'm hearing about any of this.  
TT: What the fuck?  
**\-- turntechGodhead [TG] -- has blocked tentacleTherapist [TT] --**

Well, shit.

* * *

When it really does start to rain, you spare a thought for Rose and her handkerchief. She could stare out her window the rest of her life and you’d still never speak to her again. Fuck that broad, seriously. Maybe if you stay perched on top of this cell tower for long enough, all your friends will forget you even existed. Lightning strikes, filling the air with its burnt electric smell. The sky turns dark.

Once you start shivering, though, something in you kicks to life. Finally, you can get your head on straight enough levitate off your ass and start the long descent towards the ground. That tired old piece of yourself that you still keep around for emergencies, tapping you on the shoulder. The part that was always peeling itself off the pavement, that would refuse to end a strife ‘til blood was all it could taste and there were Bro's black leather biker gloves to pick you up and carry you inside. The part of you that threw his own corpse out the window, watched it fall and decided, grim as a soldier, that he wasn't gonna end up like that, not ever. The part you that just doesn’t want to die. 

You could trace the path through the air to Dirk’s apartment, backwards in your sleep, and as it is, you only get a little lost. His window's lit up from the inside. You’ve got just enough strength left to wrest it open, then it’s a straight shot onto his wooden floor, where you collapse, dripping water just about everywhere.

You watch Dirk's feet in their slippers, moving towards you across the floor. It's only when he lifts you up that you realize how badly you’d been shaking. The uncontrollable, juddering wrack of your muscles eases some when Dirk’s body heat transfers to your soaking clothes. You feel like an angry surf beating up against the most implacable set of stone bluffs in geological history, so grateful for his tough arm wrapped around your shoulder that you can hardly believe it. 

Everything feels dim. You let Dirk lead you to the bathroom and sit you on the lid of the toilet, grateful that he doesn’t feel the need to say anything. He leaves for a minute and returns with a t-shirt and sweatpants. You watch his hands folding them and placing them on top of the cupboard. 

Fingerless gloves, not leather. He isn’t wearing his shades. The set-up is still familiar, though, Dirk fussing with something in the medicine cabinet, you sat up mute on the throne, letting him fix you up. You remember sutures and Rite Aid first aid kits and the gratitude twists into something ugly. You have to shut your eyes. 

After Dirk leaves you in the bathroom, you take the longest, hottest shower of your life. For almost an hour, all you think about is how great the water pressure is in Dirk’s shower, and which of his weird soaps and hair products you'd like to try. 

Clean, warm and dry, you’re a lot calmer than you were when you busted out of your kitchen window all those hours ago, although your inclination to have a serious conversation is, if anything, even less than before. 

But when you make your way back into Dirk’s kitchen, all he does is push a bowl of microwaved soup into your hands and guide you into a chair. He doesn’t even seem to mind when you forgo conversation in favor of getting the food into your gullet as expediently as possible. The tapping of his fingers on his keyboard serves as live musical accompaniment to your four star meal. He only speaks after you’ve dropped your empty bowl in the sink, and have been sitting quietly at the kitchen table for a couple minutes more.

“I texted Karkat and told him you’re here. He’s going full mama bear, was about to raise an amber alert or something. Told me he really wants you back at the apartment, but I let him know you’re staying here tonight, and there ain’t gonna be a problem.”

You nod your head listlessly.

“I set up the inflatable mattress in the living room. Get some sleep. I’ll stay out of your hair.” With that, Dirk turns to leave.

“Wait.” You blurt, stopping him short. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what happened?”

Dirk meets your eyes full-on, not a pair of shades between the two of you. “Karkat sent out a few panicked messages, so I know that you ran off and worried the hell out of a few of your friends. I know you need somewhere to crash tonight. Anything besides that isn’t really my business. If you really want to tell me, then you will.”

There it is. The perfect response. Nobody's gonna push you and you'll get everything you want, as fucking usual. So you’ll drop it, and in the morning you'll go back to honing your evasive maneuvers. You find new ways to run away every day. Nothing has to change.

But there’s something awful about the fact that your loved ones don't even ask questions they wonder about every day, because they're scared that if they do, you'll leave. What the hell kind of friend are you? You’ve blackmailed these poor fucks into keeping in step with your own demented dance routine. This house of cards is gonna crumble at some point, if it hasn’t already. 

Just before he’s out the door, you find some words.

“What if it ain’t like that?” You ask the back of his shoulders.

Dirk stops in the doorway and turns to face you. His face is neutral. Receptive, but not expectant. You try and work some moisture into your throat.

“What if it’s something I _do_ wanna tell you?” You ask. ”What if, I just don’t know how.”

“What if I’m fuckin’ -- running out of ideas over here, trying to figure out how to get this shit on the table.” Your own voice surprises you, how tight and angry it sounds, like rocks grinding against each other.

Dirk resumes his seat across from you. “If there's something on your mind, dude, then I'll stay here as long as you need, until you figure it out.” He sounds so certain. Like he's telling you what you get when you add two and two. And understanding, like he really does know how hard it is, sometimes, to remember that it's always just gonna be four. 

He must mean it, too, because it’s a good seven minutes of sitting before you open your mouth again.

“It's Karkat. He just --” You sigh, heavily. “Had some questions. About my upbringing.”

Down on the street, a police siren gets louder, louder, then fades away, and is gone. 

“I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to have sex with him. I think it's hurting his feelings.”

You have to look up, then, to see how Dirk takes that. His brow is slightly furrowed, considering. His orchard colored eyes are sharp and intelligent. 

“And that has something to do with your upbringing. My pre-scratch self.” His voice is thoughtful. Angry, but not at you. You shrug. 

Dirk’s brow creases nearly in two, every detail of body language broadcasting that his big brain is filling up with complicated thoughts. 

“I can’t say I never suspected.” He says to you. “I mean, you’re scrupulously tight-lipped when it comes to anything to do with him, but I’ve heard enough to paint the broad strokes. And I know myself.”

You put your head in your hands and groan. “Oh come off it, Dirk, it ain’t like that. He wasn’t like you. That's not what I'm saying. You know it isn't. I don’t...”

Dirk waves a hand to cut you off. 

“Obviously, we’re different people. Whatever he did to you, I don't take personal culpability. To be perfectly honest, that’s one of the only things that makes me think I might be on the right track. I can look at my relationships and actions and know that I’m at a place in my life where I can flout comparison with your Bro and not feel like I’m full of shit.”

“Getting to know you, Dave? Getting to be your brother in a real way? That’s something that I can think about, when I need to prove to myself that I'm not so bad. That at least I’m not as shitty as I could be.” His tone leaves no room for argument; Dirk means every word he says.

“At the same time, though," He continues, "In the same way I can, on some level, understand all my splinters, I understand my pre-scratch self way too fucking well. I can picture so clearly, all the places things went wrong. I can accurately conceptualize all the ways my worst traits had a chance to spiral out of control. I know better than anyone how dangerous they can be when they’re left unchecked. Mind games? Perversion? A total lack of empathy? Yeah, sorry, but that’s still me to the letter. It's just everything else that's different.”

Hearing him lay it all out like that, you think you might understand better, too. Spending time with Dirk can be as confusing as it is awesome. You feel like you're in two places at once, when you're with him. It might make things easier, if you could blur the distinction between him and other-him, take it all as it comes. But you still feel the need to argue, just a bit. "Dirk, believe me, you don't want the laundry list. It ain't pretty, I'm telling you. It was bad, way worse than you even know. I can't expect you to listen to that." 

“You can definitely expect that. What else am I here for?” Dirk is as implacable as ever. He pauses, gathering his thoughts, then parries at you from a new angle. 

“Dave, talking to me about this shit is actually the nicest thing you could do. You'd be letting me to directly confront my own actions. Offering me the means to materially set them right. If you’re worried about my self esteem, don’t be. I don’t have any, never did. I’d hate myself no matter what. At least this way, I can take part in fixing my own mistakes.”

You've got to hand it to the guy, he has a habit of making sense. Slowly, you lift your face out of your fingers.

But at that point, all you can think to say is, “I’m tired.”

Doesn’t seem to matter much. Enough has happened for one night; tomorrow you’ll go home to Karkat and hash this out. Drifting off to sleep, for once in your miserable life you feel grateful to paradox space. All the bullshit, all the violence and tragedy, tied up behind you. Here you are, safe, in your brother’s apartment. 

* * *

You sent Karkat a text letting him know when you’d be getting home, and when you walk through the door to your apartment, you’re greeted by a bucket of fried chicken and a quart of pink lemonade sweating on the table. Karkat is seated behind the spread, looking like he's in the throes of viral dysentery but nonetheless relieved to see you.

You skirt around the KFC banquet and gather him in your arms. 

“Sorry.” You tell his horns. “Jesus, Karkat, I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Fuck, don’t worry, dude.” He says into your shirt, squeezing your midsection like he’s trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

He’s clingy throughout dinner, insists on deboning each and every one of your chicken wings for you and is constantly refilling your cup, until there’s no more lemonade and you’re seated around a pile of dirty napkins and a bucket full of greasy bones.

“You know, Law and Order isn’t exactly a faithful representation of crime on earth.” You tell him, conversationally, while you take care of all the garbage. 

Karkat goes still. His shoulders fold a little. You need him to know this, though. That those whimpering, scared Victims with a capital V are never gonna be you. “Well, obviously." He says. "It’s junk television. You’re not a talentless actress portraying a badly-written earth human child who got human trafficked. I know the difference between TV and reality, believe it or fucking not.”

You keep your hands nice and steady, loading the crumpled paper off the table and into a bag, tying it tight. “It ain't even that, bro. The whole thing's a lie. The police don’t actually give a shit. Most of the time they can't even help.”

“Hell, I lied to the police. As a little kid? I lied to every fucking person I saw. Cops were pigs. When I pretended not to live with him when ACS dropped by, or spread misinformation to my teachers, whatever, that was just me helping my Bro fight the man. The right thing to do. Lying to the government was a special occasion, for me. Usually we’d get sundaes afterwards.” You drop the bag into the garbage can, stand there with your hands on the counter.

“Which, that’s another thing they never tell you. No matter what fuckin' research you do. When you're just a little kid, when you're living that life, you never think anything’s wrong. Sometimes you'll even like what’s happening. Sometimes the villain is actually your fucking hero.”

You have to turn, then, because you feel Karkat staring holes in the side of your head. He’s looking at you way too sad and confused. There’s that awful, out-of-place urge you sometimes get, when he looks at you with everything he ever felt in his life smeared on his face like mashed peas on a paraplegic’s chin. The need to break him down, get him when he's weak so someone worse will never have to. There’s a part of you, still, that thinks if you’re a man and you let any emotion show other than badass, you deserve to be punished. You hate yourself more than anything, when you and Karkat are having a disagreement and all of the sudden you feel like your Bro.

You sigh and move to smooth a hand through Karkat’s hair. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Yeah.” He says.

When Karkat is holding you, skin-to-skin and quiet with the all lights off, nothing you do feels real. Every action and word is swallowed by the warm, comfortable dark of the empty space in the middle of your room. Like this, you're unusually permissive with what you’ll let yourself get away with. Tonight you’re going all the way.

Gathering your strength, willing yourself not to chicken out, you send the words muffled into Karkat's clavicle. “Sometimes when you kiss me, I freeze.”  
Karkat huffs a laugh into the top of your head. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“Wait, really?” You try and pull away, but Karkat's arms hold you fast, force you to relax.

“Of course. Of course I’ve noticed. How could I not? You think it doesn’t kill me? I feel like some kind of sex-fiend, forcing you into things you don’t want.” Karkat squeezes you tighter, and you plant your cheek on his pec.

God, how stupid could one person be? Maybe it's dumb to try and hide from Karkat by burrowing closer into his side, but his big solid body is the only thing keeping you calm. "I didn't think you could tell. I never wanted it to affect you like that. Fuck, Karkat, I'm _sorry_."

He shushes you. "Don't be sorry. I'm not upset. But, Dave, come on. Of course it's gonna affect me. I... I care about you, you know?"

“...It’s not your fault.” You murmur, quiet as a pin-drop.

“I also know that, asshole!" You feel his hand on your cheek, coaxing you out from under the covers. "And I mean, sure, sometimes I wish that we could, y’know. Be concupiscent. Of course I wish it didn't have to be this federal fucking issue. But it _is_ an issue. It’s our issue. That’s fine, Dave! I don’t care! _You’re_ what I want. I don't want to pail you. I just want you to trust me.”

You feel so guilty you can’t breathe. Of course Karkat understood. His eyes are huge and made of ink. All along, he’s been so fucking patient. Always waiting for you to make the first move, disengaging at your first distress signal, always so incredibly careful not to push. And for all that, you’ve been treating him like less than dirt.

“It’s not… that I don’t _want_ to.” Karkat nods at that, too, and strokes your hair.

“I _do_ want to. Really fucking badly. Karkat, you’re… I don’t know why you’re with me at all. You’re so, fucking. You’re _good_ to me. And you’re handsome as fuck. When am I gonna get over myself?” 

The last part is delivered with a rising note of desperation, and Karkat’s hands are on your shoulders in an instant, rubbing you down like he's trying to gentle something wild.

“You gotta take it a little fucking easier on yourself, Strider. Think about where we started, in all this. Did you ever, in all your wildest fucking predilections, consider the fact that someday we’d basically be human-married and cuddling on a concupiscent platform every night? Back on the meteor, could you ever have come up with something so absolutely shithive maggots?" 

You have to laugh at that. The first time you met Karkat, you hated his guts. It took two years for you to find him even a little attractive. You kiss him chastely on his mouth. “I’m sorry,” You whisper. His claws keep drawing shapes on your scalp; you hope he'll keep going until you fall asleep.

“Don’t be sorry.” Karkat rasps in your ear. “Dave, don’t ever be sorry. Just.”

You can feel the warmth of his hand, traveling to your arm, not touching but only barely. “Please don’t hurt yourself anymore.”

You can feel your head nod. Half-asleep, you’ll agree to anything. Muzzy and well-cuddled as you are, if someone broke down your door and asked you to confess to a political assassination you didn't commit, you'd give 'em an affirmative and start to snore.

At the foot of your bed, your old ball-and-chain from a past life isn't going anywhere, not anytime soon. Your eyes are closed, so you can pretend he gives you a thumbs up from where he stands vigil at the end of the room. You’d like to think he’s proud of you. That maybe, soon, he’ll be able to take his leave, and that when he does, you won’t miss him too bad. You've got other heroes, now. Prince Charming gave you a kiss and finally, you can sleep. That night, you don't wake up once, not until morning comes. You barely even need to dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a pester-log between dave and rose following the events of the story.

TT: Hello, Dave.  
TT: I hope I'm not overstepping by messaging you.  
TT: While I am gratified to have learned that you and Karkat successfully made repairs to your union, and are once again enjoying a state of domestic bliss, I do believe that a few topics were breached between us that require redressing.  
TT: The ball has been in your court for over a week now. Seeing has you no longer have me blocked on this chat client, I believe it is within both of our best interests for me to grab hold of that impetus myself.  
TT: So, can we talk?  
TG: by all means  
TG: go ahead girl  
TG: make the steal  
TG: dribble your way downcourt to victory  
TG: give it a nice slam dunk and the crowd goes wild  
TG: do a little dance about it  
TG: get freaky with a cheerleader after the game  
TT: Well.  
TT: Alright, then.  
TT: I'm very sorry for the way that I reacted to what you told me.  
TT: And also for the way I reacted before you told me what you told me.  
TT: I realize, in hindsight, that my use of harsh language in such delicate circumstances was an oversight with dire consequences.  
TG: wait what  
TG: lmfao  
TG: you think i got all butthurt because you dropped the f bomb  
TG: honest question rose  
TG: do you think im a literal baby  
TG: you think i wear diapers  
TG: all carrying around a comically large rattle and shit  
TG: give me a break  
TT: Dave, I don't think you're a child.  
TT: I think you've been through a lot, and I acted in ways that were insensitive.  
TT: Callous, one could say.  
TG: lalonde  
TG: you literally didnt know  
TG: im the one all dropping breadcrumbs like hansel and fucking gretel in this bitch  
TG: thinking people can read the most obscure smatterings of vague hints and neurotic clues i leave in the fucked up jokes i say  
TG: fuck dude  
TG: the reason ive been putting off messaging you is cause  
TG: im just so fuckin embarrassed  
TG: thats all   
TT: There's no reason for you to feel embarrassed.  
TT: You were well within the bounds of logic, to assume what you did.  
TT: I've spent the past few days recontextualizing a good many of our past conversations.  
TT: Acting strictly on the knowledge that you had available to you, of course it must have seemed as if I had a preternatural knowledge of your circumstances.  
TT: But I really did not know.  
TT: And I'm so sorry.  
TT: Some of the things I've said in jest, when the situation called for gravity.  
TT: Some of the allegations that I would corner you into denying, when all along there was a grain of truth to my words, an inside joke between us, the extent of which I was not aware.  
TT: It's a good thing I'm an unlicensed practitioner, for I would surely have my therapeutic credentials raked over a hot bed of coals at the gross malpractice you've endured under my care.  
TG: please dont feel bad about that  
TG: im the one whos always gotta make everything into some big dumb gag  
TT: You've always been doing your best, Dave.  
TT: You're one to inhabit roles received from a higher power with grace, dignity, and poise.  
TT: Any posturing that I indulge in regarding my comprehension of your psyche is purely selfish.  
TT: I want to believe that things weren't so bad for you, back then.  
TT: It hurts, to think that you've been feeling this way the whole time, and still you haven't said a word. Not even to me.  
TT: I'd like to think that you trusted me more.  
TT: For all the pontification I've subjected you to on such edifying matters as Fruedian incest, father complexes and homosexual phallic obsessions.  
TT: I can't seem to understand how you never let it slip, not even once.  
TG: aw rose  
TG: it aint like that  
TG: really its not  
TG: i dont even know how to explain it in a not jokey way  
TG: its not like i was trying to lie  
TG: although ill level with you when i think about what a fucking liar i actually am it makes my head start spinning  
TG: thats the really funny part  
TG: to me that jokey shit was the truth  
TG: shit i mean maybe you were laughing your way through those impromptu online chat therapy sessions when we were twelve but i was on the edge of my fucking seat  
TG: thinking all these unfamiliar thoughts  
TG: feeling my shit get knocked around right into a different context  
TG: and not knowing how to feel about that  
TG: like at fucking all  
TG: i guess the truth is  
TG: even when im being honest  
TG: half of what i say is always just a lie  
TG: for instance  
TG: i warned you about stairs bro  
TG: i told you dog  
TG: shits a priceless gag, literally never gets old  
TG: if i can get my friends to say that shit to me  
TG: hear it over and over again  
TG: if i repeat it enough times eventually it loses its sting  
TG: when really what happened when bro threw me down the stairs was i broke ribs and my arm and my shoulderblade  
TG: and he left me down there for i think eight hours  
TG: didnt take me to the hospital for a week cause he didnt believe i had any fractures  
TG: other than the arm  
TG: which was splinted with, i shit you not, the broken off nose of a life sized pinocchio sex doll  
TG: he duct taped that shit on over my shirt and said good enough  
TG: but i kept screaming  
TG: so eventually he ended up taking me to the vet  
TG: and that isnt really so funny  
TG: is it  
TT: No, that's not funny at all.  
TT: That's horrible.  
TG: well  
TG: yeah  
TG: its the truth  
TT: Fuck, Dave.  
TT: I'm so sorry.  
TG: hey no big deal  
TG: that shit never needs to happen to me again  
TG: i just gotta let it go yknow  
TT: While I must give you due admiration for the quite frankly staggering amount of emotion strength you are displaying, and though I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment that the past should remain in cold earth where it lies in favor of pursuing a brighter tomorrow, you are entirely permitted to feel however it is you may, when it comes to this.  
TT: You really are a Knight.  
TT: Always shouldering burdens with such heartbreaking aplomb.  
TT: You never once complained.  
TT: And even now; I don't understand how you can manage to be around Dirk, now that you've told me.  
TG: okay lets get one thing straight  
TG: i dont just "manage to be around" dirk  
TG: dirks the fucking shit  
TG: i love that dude  
TG: come on rose think about how it is with you and roxy  
TG: i know it wasnt mother daughter picnics on the prairie back with your mom  
TG: but does that matter  
TG: no not at fucking all  
TG: roxys a different person than she was in universe b and so's dirk  
TG: and anyway it isnt like i dont fuckin  
TG: i mean  
TG: even with all the shit he put me through  
TG: knowing what i do now  
TG: how none of that shit was right and theres no way to frame it that could ever make it anything less than evil  
TG: i get that he didnt give a single speck of skidmark on his briefs for me  
TG: but i loved my bro  
TG: i miss him sometimes  
TG: when im with dirk its like im hanging out with who i wish he could have been  
TG: dirk is what helps me the fucking most  
TG: i dont have to force shit with him  
TG: hes a good fucking guy  
TT: I'm sorry if that came off the wrong way.  
TT: I suppose I assumed that being in his presence might, and forgive my usage of loaded terminology, be triggering to you.  
TG: i dont know what triggering even means  
TG: is it when something reminds you of whatever terrible thing happened  
TG: because if thats the case then fucking everything triggers me  
TG: samurai movies trigger me  
TG: sesame street triggers me  
TG: the fucking restaurant chain friendlys triggers me  
TG: if thats the case and from the moment i wake up to the moment i fall asleep you expect me to believe my trigger is getting held down like the switch on an arcade rifle on the day of the big game  
TG: then that also means that actually nothing triggers me  
TG: and being around dirk actually kinda makes me feel better despite the fucking bullet casings all falling on the goddamn floor  
TG: rat a tat motherfucker  
TG: dirks not the one you should be worried about  
TG: its karkat who can really get me trigger happy  
TT: What do you mean?  
TG: our sex life isnt really hitting its peak potential  
TT: As in, you're not finding yourselves satisfied?  
TG: as in its pretty much nonexistent  
TG: half the time when we make out it isnt even sloppy  
TG: im like the saddest most low down doesnt wanna be there reject benchwarmer  
TG: taking his sweet time moseying towards second base  
TG: except hes never gonna get there and people are starting to throw rotten vegetables from the stands  
TT: If you're the player, am I given to believe that, in this metaphor, Karkat is the audience? Pelting you with rotten tomatoes, insistent that you pick up the pace?  
TG: not even  
TG: hes actually like TG: so fucking patient  
TG: i feel bad for the dude it would probably be more fun watching paint dry than it is trying to get me to open my legs  
TG: aspirin held between your knees babe its the only birth control i need  
TG: cause biologically impossible alien hybrid buttbabies is exactly the problem im trying to avoid  
TG: lmao  
TG: i guess the audience is like  
TG: my bro or something  
TG: i feel like his voice is in my fucking head sometimes  
TG: always ordering me around  
TG: cutting me down  
TG: telling me what to do  
TG: sometimes i think i should listen  
TG: other times i know hes always been full of shit  
TG: but i cant ever shake the feeling like i got him spectating me  
TG: like even if hes dead i still got him spectating me for life  
TT: Well, I think that the best thing you can do right now is try to be honest with Karkat.  
TT: Communication, as daunting as it may seem, is the only way to access the root of these issues.  
TT: As I'm sure you're aware, Karkat brings to the table his own host of insecurities and hangups.  
TT: On Alternia, each and every respectable member of the Empire was meant to provide buckets of slurry for collection by the drones.  
TT: This factory-oriented method of reproduction was the crux of Alternia's government-mandated quadrant system, which as a holdover of a fascist society has left the entire troll population with deep sociological trauma.  
TT: None suffered the consequences of this oppressive system so much as Karkat, for whom the prospect of concupiscence was an aspiration riddled with complications.  
TT: Performing his civic duty and filling buckets with a quadrant-mate would inevitably reveal his status as a mutant hemotype, marking him for the cull.  
TT: What I'm saying is, none of this is easy. Not for any of us, and certainly not for either of you.  
TG: oh wow  
TG: im such a dick  
TG: i literally never even thought about that  
TG: you know about grub scars  
TT: My wife is a troll.  
TT: You could say I know a thing or two about grub scars.  
TG: im such a fucking fool  
TG: no wonder he didnt wanna get shirtless with me  
TG: holy shit  
TG: its cause hes got blinking lights that say murder me going up his sides  
TT: You don't have to feel guilty.  
TT: There's a lot of learning involved, here.  
TT: I've already had this conversation with Karkat, while you were spending the night at Dirk's apartment and he was entering a truly impressive froth of self flagellation.   
TG: yikes  
TG: yeah i guess me and him are about even on the cultural misunderstanding front  
TG: rose you gotta understand the way he broached the topic was way not cool   
TT: Believe me, he came to me with a great many misconceptions, and it was only with a tremendous amount of willpower that I managed to educate him calmly and with respect.   
TG: i mean its just fucking insulting  
TG: oh you got diddled you mean like on law and order svu????  
TG: what a load of horseshit  
TG: im not a special fucking victim  
TT: I completely understand how being compared to such a shallow, non-comprehensive pastiche of what, to you, is a very nuanced and real issue, made you react how you did.  
TT: And, the viewports.  
TG: were not talking about the viewports  
TG: still cant really think about that or else i start to feel sick  
TT: Understood.  
TT: On the whole, even though unpacking such long-held burdens is heavy work, you don't have to do it alone.  
TT: My Light powers are awash with the warm glow of possibility.  
TT: I only see good things happening between you and Karkat.  
TT: At least right here. At least for right now.  
TT: And while you don't have to use any label you don't identify with, there's nothing inherently wrong about being a victim.  
TT: In fact, the concept of victimhood divorces you from responsibility for the things that were done to you.  
TT: Victimhood and heroism are not mutually exclusive; often they go hand in hand.  
TT: Some of the greatest heroes who walk in history have, at some point in their story, been victimized. Such experiences hold the potential to lead them down a path of strength.   
TG: thanks mrs miyagi ill keep that in mind  
TT: See to it that you do.  
TG: no really  
TG: i will  
TG: thank you rose  
TG: when youre right youre fucking right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*~*~THE END~*~*~*~*~
> 
> DROP A COMMENT  
> SAVE A LIFE

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! as always, coments n kudos are much appreciated <3


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